Perhaps if I had been a little more diplomatic I could have avoided the confrontation that followed. But diplomacy has never been one of my strengths. I always left that to Josef. I prefer to rely on raw power and trickery.
I reached out and pulled the stakes to me. I still didn't care for the sniffing tobacco, but the bread was a real prize. Victorious, I stood up and turned to leave.
"Sit down!" my opponent hissed. I turned to find him on his feet, fists planted on the table. It was entirely possible he was not pleased with losing to a young woman. Especially one who had so utterly outplayed him. I think I might have made it worse by not looking at my final stone until it turned. In the eyes of the other scabs it made me look courageous and bold, and him look foolish. In truth, I was the foolish one and my move had been more bravado than real courage. That first round, I played the player. The second round, I let the luck of the game carry me to victory.
"I have my winnings," I said, backing up a step. "You should take your defeat like a man."
"Sit down!" he hissed again. "You'll play another fucking round or I'll beat you senseless and take all the stakes I want."
That didn't go down well with the crowd, not that any of the cowardly fucks moved to intervene. Gambling was one of the few pastimes we scabs had. One of the few that Deko allowed us to have. I didn't know it then, but there was an unspoken rule that fair games of chance were respected. Of course, not many were willing to enforce that.
I glanced around at the crowd, still clutching my winnings to my chest. They were all watching the exchange, but none looked willing to get involved. There was no profit in it for them. All they had to do was watch and they'd at least get some entertainment, though likely at my expense.
I knew I could shout for help. Isen was only a few tables away and both Josef and Hardt would come running if they knew I was in trouble. But I had gotten myself into this mess and I was determined I would get myself out of it. I've never been one to go screaming to the nearest men for help. That being said, I was an antagonistic bitch without a diplomatic bone in my body and had less chance of winning in a fight than I did of learning to fly.
"You," I said, pointing at a big man with a scarred lip and scarred knuckles. "I'll give you half the bread if you beat him unconscious."
"What..." That was about all my opponent managed to say before a scarred knuckle hit him in the side of the head. He stumbled and the big man whose help I had just employed grabbed hold and slammed my opponent's head into the stone table twice, leaving a dark red smear and a broken tooth embedded in the stone. Another lesson to learn, if a job's worth doing, it's worth hiring someone to do it properly.
My opponent slid down to the floor under the table. His eyes were open but unfocused and bloody spittle bubbled between broken lips. He was still conscious, but I counted the big man as having done his job well enough.
"Fair pay for fair work." I tore the heel of bread and tossed one of the halves to the stranger with the scarred and bloody knuckles. It was the smaller half.
Chapter 8
My first meeting with the Iron Legion was both awe-inspiring and terrifying in equal measure, and I had no idea who he was at the time. Larissa marched me up to the front gate of the Orran Academy of Magic and kept a firm hand on my shoulder, whether to keep me from running or lend me support, I don't know. I remember thinking the gate was monstrous as it loomed high above us, the walls around the academy grounds blocked sight of anything beyond and all we could see were the barest hints of the tops of buildings and a bruised sky above. It was raining, I think. We were certainly damp. It was cold too, but Josef and I clung to one another, sharing warmth through our rags.
Larissa seemed surprised by the man standing at the front gate. He looked old even then, a heavily lined face and dark hair just starting to grey. A man in his thirtieth year made ancient far before his time. He wore a kind smile as he stared off into the distance, heedless of the rain soaking him through.
I was quite shocked when Larissa went down on one knee in the mud and the other recruiter did the same. Josef and I stood still for a moment. We were too young to know or care about the issue of royalty. Back then I'm not even sure if I knew what the word meant. I know Josef was the first to copy Larissa, sinking down onto a knee and pulling me with him. I hated kneeling in the mud that day, despite the fact that I would happily have rolled in it on most. Children can be so very illogical, and I was no exception.
I remember the moment the man at the gate noticed us. He quit his staring into the distance and startled at our presence, just for a moment, before the smile returned. I thought he looked a lot like my grandfather, though I had lost the man a year earlier and the details of his face escaped me even then. Still, I could remember he had been kind and comforting and never failed to sneak me sweet treats before dinner.
Larissa called the man Prince Loran. I soon came to know him as the Iron Legion, though only in stories about the way he was single-handedly keeping Orran's borders intact. He asked Larissa a few questions I couldn't hear over the rain, and then went down on one knee in front of Josef, heedless of how the mud stained his white robes. I don't think he said anything, just stared at Josef, who stared right back. Then he looked at me and for just a moment I felt— awe. Prince Loran Tow Orran blazed with power. I didn't understand it back then, but I felt it all the same. Meeting his eyes, I could feel the depths of that power ran deep as the bones of Orran itself.
It was only when Josef squeezed my hand that I realised the prince had said something to me. I still to this day cannot remember what it was. I simply wasn't listening. I was lost. The sight of the Iron Legion, the feeling of power he gave off, had shocked me to my core. Then he stood and stepped aside, waving us through the gate.
I looked up to Prince Loran. I'm not ashamed to say it was a touch of hero worship. His name was legend, his deeds were the things bards wrote stories about. I know, I read dozens of them in the academy library. I read accounts of his training with the Golemancers of Polasia, a school of magic all but alien to both the Orrans and the Terrelans. He had convinced them to teach him their arts by impressing the masters so much that it became a mutual exchange of knowledge and ideas rather than an apprenticeship.
There was a tale of his trip to Do'shan, his battle of wits with the Djinn incarcerated there. Some people say no one ever gets the better end of a deal with a Djinn. They are masters of words and loopholes, twisting people's desires upon themselves. The tale was extravagant, I'll give it that, and it claimed the prince answered correctly one riddle for each year he had been alive. In the end, the Djinn relented and gave him a boon. Having since been to Do'shan, I believe very little of that story; only that prince Loran has indeed been there and matched wits with the trapped Djinn.
Years later, I was devastated when word came in that the Iron Legion had fallen to the Terrelan army. Josef was the only one who knew of my infatuation with the prince and he did his best to console me. But I had no time to grieve for the man I idolised, we were too busy fighting a war. Well, we were too busy losing it. I think Prince Loran was my first experience with loss. The first in a long line.
It must have been nearing my sixth month underground when I finally visited the arena. It was located deep within the bowels of the Pit, as far away from the Terrelan garrison as possible. A winding series of tunnels opened out into a large man-made cavern, and the roar of bloodlust filled the space along with the stench of sweat and blood.